This is part 3 of a hypothetical that imagines you are a minimum-wage worker with a car and an apartment. You live by yourself and take care of yourself. The hypothetical imagines a worse-case scenario but is based on a collage of real events that have happened at various times over the years to the predominant demographic of those prosecuted in Champaign County. You can read part 1 here and part 2 here.
Another month comes and goes, and the sports seasons have changed from baseball to football. You’ve been in jail so long that the lack of exercise and the poor diet served at the jail has you gaining weight. You sleep more than ever since that’s the only reprieve from jail. At the same time, you can’t wait to get out. This ordeal would make a great book or movie, you think to yourself. You can’t believe this is happening to you and some on the cell block mock your stubborn unwillingness to take a plea. “He must want to be in jail,” some conclude. If all they had to do was take a plea to get out, they do it in a minute.
On Day 152 of your incarceration, you are again shackled and driven over to the courthouse in the van. On the trip over, you notice the trees are starting to change color. You make up your mind that if necessary, you will interrupt the courtroom to demand a trial. As you sit in shackles, your name is called and the state’s attorney announces an unexpected surprise: the state is filing an additional charge against you, Aggravated Battery To A Peace Officer, in that you shoved Officer Friendly who you knew to be a peace officer engaged in the performance of his lawful duties. What? That’s outrageous, that never happened. When your public defender comes by the row of shackled inmates in jail jumpsuits, you blurt out to the public defender that the prosecutor is lying, you didn’t shove any officers that night 152 days ago. The public defender assures you that she’ll talk to you about it later. Your case is continued yet again. Back to the jail pod you go, again.
When you get back, you notice the person who was selling you the use of his pencil, some paper, and stamped envelopes is no longer on your pod. That’s odd, his charges were pretty serious with a very high bond, how did he get out? Other inmates speculate he got transferred to another pod. Must be a snitch. Whatever. How can people like that get out so easily and you have to stay here on nothing and now on completely fabricated charges. This nightmare is getting ridiculous. You want to write your public defender again to explain the state is making things up. Nobody is selling or lending anything to you. You sit infuriated.
A couple of weeks later, as promised, the public defender meets with you and explains the state filed what’s called a supplemental discovery against you with the officer’s report of the shove you gave him the night of your arrest. You protest that is an absurd lie but the public defender just sits quietly, disbelieving you. You demand this case be set for trial. This is crazy. She asks if you thought about the state’s offer to plead to the obstructing justice charge. She entices you with the certainty you could get out of jail if you did. You tell her you demand a trial, you are innocent and this will be a serious civil lawsuit. She reminds you that it’s your word against theirs and it can be very difficult in this county to find a jury that would disbelieve police officers. In your anger, you say you don’t care, you want a trial now. She rolls her eyes at your defiance. She says meeting is over, she’ll be in touch soon. As you are leaving, the public defender thinks to herself that she was right about you, you are an “uncooperative one.”
Soon after, your mom visits at long last. You are led into a room of stools that sit before rows of glass windows where you can talk on the phone to the person behind the glass. It’s almost heartbreaking to see your mom finally. She is tired but pleasant. She is terribly sorry to see you this way. She asks if they provide haircuts in jail, and you say they don’t. She is very disturbed by your wild man appearance. You explain to her again, as you have in all your letters, you are innocent and this shouldn’t be happening. She knows you’re upset. She asks if you thought about that plea offer you mentioned earlier. You could at least get out of here. It’s becoming very tempting to do so, but you’ve sworn to fight this and file suit later. It’s not a crime to refuse to be searched. She smiles and tells you she’ll support you however she can. You ask is there anyway she could, while she’s in town, go over to your apartment and see if your stuff is still there. Maybe get it out of there. She’s terribly sorry, she can’t, her ride needs to get back so she’ll be going home right after this visit. Home. That sounds real good. And seeing your mom makes home even more painful to think about. God, get me outta’ here, you mutter to yourself. It’s your first real prayer.
On Day 178 of your incarceration you again are shackled and put in the van for a drive to the courthouse. The leaves on the trees are almost gone now and the cold outside matches the attitude at the courthouse. At first sight of your public defender, you demand a damn trial right now. She asks again, “Are you sure you want to go to trial and not take the state’s offer?” “Yes,” you say. “Alright,…” she says, “…I’ll tell ’em we’re ready for trial.” When your name comes up, your attorney does what she said, and declares you’re ready for trial. The state announces, disbelieving that’s ever going to happen, they are ready too, since they got you dead in their cross hairs and it’s almost funny you think you can beat them.
The judge sets your case for the next jury trial period. Another pre-trial hearing will be in two weeks.
Maybe this unfair jailing will come to an end at last. The next week, you get an unexpected visit from your public defender. “Good news!” she says. There’s been another rape in your neighborhood and the state’s attorney knows now you are not the rapist. They’ve offered 18 months probation and a fine of $250 if you plead guilty to one of the counts of Resisting a Police Officer. You won’t have a felony conviction on your record if you do and you can get out of jail. You reply “Bullshit, I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well,…” your public defender pleads, “…I know you feel that way, but I think you should take this offer, it’s a really good deal and you’ve been in jail long enough. Don’t you want out of here?”
Of course you do, but you didn’t do anything wrong, it’s not a crime to refuse to be searched when you are innocent. You want a not guilty verdict because that’s the truth.
Your attorney leans back to think over what she is about to say. How can she convince you to take this deal and stop with the suicidal idea of going to trial?
“If you go to trial and you lose,” she says, “…you could have two felony convictions. You risk being sent to prison and I know for a fact they will come down harder on you if you take them to trial and lose.”
“I’m not going to lose,” you counter, “…the law is on my side.”
“No it isn’t!,..” she yells back, “…You can’t refuse a search when there’s a rapist loose in the area. The courts have already decided this.”
You can’t believe it. She goes on to explain the concept of “exigent circumstances,” that allows officers to search persons in the event of imminent danger. You were not allowed to refuse the roadside check. She’s sorry, but that’s the way it is.
You ask about the phony shoving-the-officer charge.
“It will be dropped,” she says.
You ask how can they get away with making stuff up against people. She replies she wasn’t at your arrest, so she doesn’t really know, all she knows for sure, is there is a police report stating you in fact shoved an officer and that would probably be the officer’s testimony at trial.
“Plus,…” she says hoping this will convince you to take the deal, “…they have another witness from the county jail that will testify you were bragging in the jail cell about shoving the officer.”
Unbelievable! You did no such thing.
“Well, that’s what the witness will testify to,” she says.
You sit in stunned silence. You’ve never seen such a rigged game in your life. During your silence, your attorney says softly, “It’s only a misdemeanor and you’ll be out the minute the hearing is over.”
“Fuck this shit,” you say in your frustration. “I’ll take the deal.”
“Great!” your attorney exclaims. “We’re gonna’ get you out of here.”
Another week goes by and you begin your good-byes to the few chums left on your block. They are happy for you that you’re getting out and some ask you to drink a few beers for them. Saying good-bye to your fellow classmates is reminiscent of graduating from a school. Unbeknownst to you, however, your chance at a civil lawsuit is now forever gone the second you sign to the plea of guilty.
The hearing day comes and everyone tells you good luck and some say it was good to know you. A few ask you to contact their girlfriends or lawyers for them, and you say maybe, there’s a lot you need to do about your apartment and stuff left behind. Some of the guards you’ve come to recognize as decent people, wish you well and hope to never see you again. Despite the well-wishes, and the fondness for the genuine friends you’ve come to know, the mere thought of leaving forever and never looking back is all you want to do. You can physically feel each door swinging open as another breath of fresh air. You will not miss this place, ever.
Your attorney meets you at the courtroom and whispers to you that you will be asked if you want to say something before the judge passes sentence. She strongly urges that you don’t need to say anything because the sentence is going to be what you and her talked about earlier. What she really wants to be sure of, (though she’s not telling you this,) is she wants you to keep your mouth shut so you won’t go into your Constitutional hysterics and screw this up. The judge enters the courtroom and all rise, and he allows everyone to sit back down. He asks the prosecutor if this is a case is to be set for trial, and the prosecutor says this will be a plea. Judge says fine and allows the prosecutor to explain what’s to happen.
The prosecutor says that the state will move to dismiss charges one, two and four of the charging instrument, in exchange for your guilty plea to the Resisting a Peace Officer charge. You admit that on the date you were arrested you refused to allow Officer Friendly to obtain your personal information, knowing that Officer Friendly was a peace officer engaged in the performance of his lawful duties. Since this is a first offense, the People feel it would be appropriate for the defendant to be sentenced to 18 months probation and fined $250, plus court costs. The judge asks the defense if there is anything to add and your attorney says, “No Your Honor, other than we agree with the state.” The judge accepts that, and then queries you as to whether you have been coerced, forced, or paid to give a guilty plea. While you want to mention that being in jail for all this time is what’s forcing you to accept this raw deal, you instead behave and tell the judge you are doing this on your own free will. You are thereby sentenced to 192 days in the county jail with time served, 18 months probation, and a $250 fine plus court costs. Court is adjourned. You are free to go.
You are led back to the van for one last ride to the jail. You are unshackled and one of the guards begins unloading your bag of stuff onto a counter. Your clothes, wallet, dead cellphone, comb, keys and shoes are returned to you. You no longer fit into your pants but you squeeze into them like it was your ticket to freedom. Lacing up your shoes, it feels good to be normal again wearing street clothes. It’s late afternoon, near supper time, and you are let out of the jail to walk wherever. It’s over.
The breeze, despite the chill in the air, feels great and real sunshine hitting your face is a relief. You walk for 45 minutes back to your old apartment. Maybe your landlord is around to discuss what happened to your stuff. He’s not of course and so you walk downtown to at least sit in freedom, even if all you have is the clothes on your back and a driver’s license you have no use for.
Your guilty plea carries the burden of court costs. These costs are an array of fees the criminal justice system levies against the guilty to offset its expenses so as not to trouble the taxpayers any further. There is a $15.00 Document Storage Fee, a $5.00 E-Citation Fee, a $15.00 Automation Fee, a $75.00 Circuit Clerk Fee, a $25.00 Court Security Fee, a $25.00 Court Financing Fee, a $10.00 State’s Attorney Fee, a $2.00 State’s Attorney Automation Fee, a $5.00 Crimestoppers Fee, a $10.00 Arrestees Medical Fee, a $15.00-a-month Probation Monitoring Fee, a $10.00 Probation Operators Assistance Fee, an $80.00 Traffic Criminal Surcharge Fee, a $5.00 Drug Court Fee, a $75.00 Violent Crime Victims Fee, and a $10.00 State Police Operations Fee. With the probation fee over 18 months, plus the fine, you now owe $1,137.00 dollars. With no job, that will have to be a problem for another day. You might stop by your old employer and see if you can get lucky. Forget your car, it’s long gone.
You walk around some, and it’s cold. You heard the Salvation Army gives away free winter jackets. A visit there makes your must-do list for tomorrow’s schedule. You go to a nearby coffee house to drink a water. Your wild long hair and long beard has you standing out, especially since you have no jacket on. Because you haven’t bought anything, you attract attention from the owner and he stops by your table and whispers politely, “Sir, you have to buy something if you’re gonna’ be in here.” You apologize and leave.
Back out in the cold, you walk over to the bus terminal to hang out in the warmth. You look at people and listen to their conversations. It’s nice to be out of jail. After an hour and a half, a security guard, who has been watching you on surveillance camera, notices you haven’t boarded a bus. He approaches you, and says, “Where are you going?” You say nowhere really, you were just trying to stay warm. “Unless you are going to get on a bus or a train, you need to leave,” he replies sternly. Back out into the cold you go. You walk around to stay warm and in the dark you just go back and forth. You sit on public benches to break up the monotony where panhandlers sometimes ask you for change. You say you have none to give. Noticing your lack of a jacket, they believe you.
The bars close and you watch the revelers stagger back to their cars or Merry Ann’s diner. Taxis fly around as do Champaign Police squad cars. You keep walking to stay warm, sometimes grabbing a cigarette butt off the ground and checking to see if your lighter still works, you beat back the hunger with a smoke. As you keep walking around, you see no one- except a sudden squad car that’s snuck up on you. A police officer steps out of the vehicle and says, “Hello, how’s it going?” Uh, oh. You have an immediate aversion to police now.
The officer walks up to you and says, “I noticed you were walking around,…” [because you look like a werewolf who’s walking aimlessly like he’s casing a burglary and you have no jacket on,] “…what are you doing?”
“Nothing,” you reply.
“Do you have some identification on you I can see?”
You want to protest and tell the officer he has no right to ask for anything since walking on a public sidewalk should not be a reasonable suspicion for a crime, but,…you’ve seen this movie before…so instead, you hand over your driver’s license.
“Wait here,” and the officer steps away and asks METCAD** about your name, birth date, and driver’s license number.
“A little cold to be without a jacket, isn’t it?” chirps the officer while he waits for METCAD to tell him what you are.
No shit, Sherlock, you think to yourself.
Instead you politely say, “Yes sir.”
“Partner, I need you to keep your hands out of your pockets for me, okay?” says the officer.
Some numerical codes are exchanged and METCAD advises they’ll send for back-up.
The officer asks if you’ve ever been arrested before. He’s not asking because he doesn’t know, he’s asking to see if you’ll lie to him. Within seconds, two more squad cars arrive and the two officers stand off to the side with their hands resting on their guns.
“Yes, sir.”
The officer then asks, “Do you have any weapons on you I should know about?”
How stupid you think. If you had weapons you were planning to use on him, you wouldn’t tell him in advance. And who the hell would attack a police officer?
“No sir,…” you reply with some irritation,”…I do have a Bic lighter if that counts.”
“You mind if I pat you down, to be sure?” asks the officer.
You want to tell these police to fuck off, you really do. You feel like you’re in a bad Nazi Germany movie with all this searching and demanding for information when all you’re trying to do is go from Point A to Point B. But it’s your American Ideals that got you convicted in the first place, and you’d rather not go to jail again.
“Alright, I guess,” you answer relunctantly.
“Put your hands on the hood of the squad car, okay?” says the officer.
You do and the officer lightly kicks your ankles and tells you to spread your legs a little. He pats you down, squeezing each pocket and asks you what is in each of your pockets as he visits. “What’s in here?” Lighter, keys. “What’s in here?” wallet. “What’s in here?” Cellphone, comb. He goes down your legs to make sure you’ve not hidden something there too and he realizes you have nothing on you.
“Alright, keep your hands where we can see them, okay? What were you arrested for?”
Again, the officer is just checking to see if you’re going to lie to him.
“Some obstruction of justice bullshit,” you reply. Whoops, your attitude slipped out.
“Where do you stay?” asks the officer.
“No where, I just got out of jail today,” you say with shame.
“That’s right,” says the officer (letting slip he already knew that,) “…well, what’s your plan for tonight?”
“I don’t know,” you answer.
“I suggest tomorrow you get over to the TIMES Center and see if they got a spot. It’s too cold to be out wandering around here,” says the officer.
“Okay,” you reply.
“I don’t care where you go tonight, but you can’t be around here, so you need to keep moving,” the officer commands.
You want to argue that they have no right to tell you where you can and can’t go. The officer believes he’s just doing his job keeping the convicts away from the business community per orders he got from headquarters before his evening shift. It’s been decided we’re not going to have any more smashed storefronts like there was over at the bookstore.
In the hopes the police will leave you alone, you agree to the terms for tonight.
“Get over to the TIMES Center- they might be able to help you out,” the officers says, trying out some community policing. “You know where it is?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you answer.
“Alright, well,…have a good night and don’t let us catch you around here again, okay?”
Oh how good a middle finger to his face would feel about now, but instead you nod, just hoping they will go away. You’ve had enough of the police for one lifetime.